Noise
by modernlifehistorian
Summary: "You hear that?" She asks vaguely. He would normally be thrown into a military mindset at such a question, gun drawn, ready to fight, but by what he reads in Lucy's expression, she isn't concerned or worried… just confused. "It sounded like a grunt or a…" she clears her throat. "A moan?" PostSeason2 Future!Lyatt Present!Lyatt
1. Chapter 1

Adding another piece to the ever growing pile of Future!Lyatt fluff, with some good ole' fashion Present!Lyatt thrown in for good measure (because I love them both with my whole heart) This will be a two-parter! Enjoy!

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The mess area is occupied by everyone except the guests of honor from the future themselves. Lucy's occupied herself in a book, Denise has yet to arrive, Flynn is scraping together some semblance of breakfast with the measly ingredients found in the bunker, and Jiya and Mason are going over the information future Lucy and Wyatt had provided. Wyatt is doing what he does best, silently observing his friends (and Flynn) while trying to process everything he had learned which surprisingly has not been that much. Their visitors from the future have told them the bare minimum of what is needed to know and refuse to say anything more, Future Lucy as worried as ever about affecting the future too much. As if their plans to go back and save Rufus wouldn't do that enough.

Lucy dropping her book to her lap and glancing around shakes him from his current train of thought. The bruises from her confrontation with Emma have begun to fade and the cuts are shrinking day by day, but there are still shadows of the whole ordeal hazing her eyes, shadows the Future Lucy seems to be free of. He hopes his future self played a hand in ridding her of them, maybe bringing some light back into her life. He casts his Lucy an inquisitive glance, silently asking her what has drawn her from her reading.

"You hear that?" She asks vaguely. He would normally be thrown into a military mindset at such a question, gun drawn, ready to fight, but by what he reads in Lucy's expression, she isn't concerned or worried… just confused. "It sounded like a grunt or a…" she clears her throat. "A moan?" There is a touch of pink on her cheeks, and it dawns on him what she's referring to, but he refrains from jumping to conclusions.

"Maybe it's just—" And then he hears it. A loud, long groan he never thought he would hear come from a voice that sounded a whole lot like the historian sitting a couple feet away. The other people in the mess hall seem to be keying in on the sounds as well, their suspicious eyes drifting to the present pair even though it's obvious who the sound must be coming from.

The noises become more consistent and more varied. Groaning, slapping, laughing, the occasional "oh fuck," and what Wyatt can only assume is someone being shoved up against a wall.

He nearly chokes on his coffee.

"Well that's new," Mason says tightly, clearly unsure of how to react to the recent developments. "You know, Jiya, we should really start configuring these upgrades to our Lifeboat. Let's… Let's get to that." He's out of the kitchen quicker than anyone has seen him move.

"Good idea," Jiya agrees, but with a much less uncomfortable look on her face. Instead she looks ready to burst at the seams with laughter, casting a quick glance at Lucy and Wyatt before following her former boss out of the kitchen.

Wyatt shifts his gave toward Flynn who is still busying himself with his eggs but clearly pursing his lips to keep a shit-eating grin from spreading across his face, always seeming to know more than he's letting on.

"You got something to say?" Wyatt shoots at Flynn, but the man just shrugs, not even lifting his gaze from his food.

"Might just want to go take a look before you start jumping to any conclusions," Flynn suggests. Wyatt isn't sure whether the ex-terrorist is trying to lead them into an incredibly awkward trap, or he's actually trying to help them get _out_ of this already incredibly awkward situation, but before he has a chance to respond Lucy is already on her feet and walking cautiously toward the source. So Wyatt follows.

As they get closer Wyatt begins to differentiate what he thought was hearing from what is _actually_ going on. He hears thump and another faint grunt followed by "Damn, Lucy, really got that one under me." And a laugh that he knows without question to belong to the woman in front of him.

"Well, I did learn from the best." Lucy, _his_ Lucy, is halted beside him, not quite keyed in on what is happening. It's only a second before the sounds start again, slaps, thumps, grunts, and moving air. When a quiet laugh leaves his mouth, Lucy looks up at him, silently begging for an explanation.

"They're _sparring,_ " he whispers into her ear and a look of realization crosses her brown eyes.

"Oh…" she breathes with a slight chuckle behind it, hiding her face in her hands for just a second. "Well, that's…" The question of whether it's a relief or not is hanging in the air. He just tilts his head towards the sound with a curious quirk of his eyebrows before continuing in that direction.

"Wyatt," Lucy whispers harshly behind him, but he walks froward, peeking around the corner.

He isn't quite prepared for what he sees.

His future self is more or less what Wyatt would expect to see from any Delta operative training hand-to-hand maneuvers. Ratty basketball shorts, no shirt, bare feet, hands lightly wrapped, sweat beads forming on his brow. Nothing new there. It's this Future Lucy that has him a little dry-mouthed.

Her short hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail with some loose strands slicked to the sides of her face with sweat. She, like her partner, is also not wearing a shirt. The only difference in their attire being the black sports bra that starkly contrasts Lucy's still fair skin and the shorter, fairly tighter shorts, highlighting her long legs. There are lean muscles rippling through her back and arms that Wyatt is quite certain his Lucy doesn't yet possess. Her legs are just as slim, but much more defined. This present Lucy is beautiful as any woman he ever seen that he's sure of, but for a reason he can't quite yet discern, he holds a different kind of reverence for this Lucy. As he watches her move it becomes a little bit clearer.

He's seen the moves she's using on this version Wyatt, he's learned them, he's trained them, he's even taught them. This Lucy is applying moves specific to Delta in her fighting, skills she would only have learned if he had taught her himself. And by what he is witnessing, he is guessing that's exactly what happened.

While soldiers are taught many of the same maneuvers and tactics, each person has their own style to fighting, their own signature, and he sees his own signatures in the way Lucy moves. How her jabs aim a little offset to strike the hinge of the jaw rather than the brute bone of the cheek or chin, how her kicks aim lower as to disrupt his footing (he always thought a roundhouse kick to the face was just a little too time consuming), and even how she held her hands between strikes, open, rather than in fists. But even with the reflection of his particular fighting style, Wyatt notices something distinct to Lucy's movements that made her fighting her own.

As much as it shocks him to say, there is an amazing amount of grace in the way she works around his future counterpart. What he sees in himself is fire, spitting and sparking when the moments suits, disjointed, angry, yet effective, but she's like water, always in motion, a certain calmness about her even in the midst of the fight, her movements always seeming fluid, connected, and when they meet in the middle, the air hisses as if they were just that, fire and water in combat.

But it's in the second he sees Lucy get caught off her guard by something he can't see that Wyatt has her pinned, back against the cold concrete of the bunker, hand closed hauntingly tight around her throat. To his surprise, however, Lucy just drops her head to the floor and laughs, her hand coming to rest on top of his.

"Dammit," she chuckles. "I fell for it again." After it's clear their fight has come to an end, all tension falls from the older Wyatt's body, and he settles on his knees beside his Lucy, wiping a sweat-soaked strand of hair from her forehead.

"Gotta watch for both hands, Luce," he laughs along side her, but Wyatt can hear the concern his future self is trying to mask.

"I know that," she sighs. "Just have a lot on my mind."

"Well when isn't that the case?" He smirks and she just mockingly rolls her eyes. "You have to be ready for anything, even when there's a lot going on in that ginormous brain of yours. Isn't that right, Master Sergeant?" Hearing himself calling him by his rank is confusing enough to shake him out of his sharp focus on the scene before him.

"You have two hands," he answers back. "One for distracting and one for fighting." It's a lame saying he's used all his years in the military, but it still sticks with him. He learned to fight just as strongly with his left side as well as his right, so his opponent would never be able to discern from what side an attack would come. It took a lot of mental stamina, keeping up with direction of attack as well as direction of feet and body position, but it served him well and earned him a good deal of respect from his brothers back before all this time-traveling business began.

By this time, his Lucy has made her way to his side and is more or less gawking at the scene before her. Always a more modest woman, she's struggling to keep a blush off her cheeks at the sight of her seemingly more open future version, but as Future Lucy is helped to her feet by her Wyatt, and immediately goes to throw on a shirt, he thinks the two might not be so entirely different.

"You two…spar together?" He asks, unsure if it's a question he should be asking the still fairly mysterious duo.

"Every morning," Lucy answers, casting a shy smile at her Wyatt. "For almost exactly five years." Wyatt takes a little more time grabbing his own shirt, but he meets her gaze as he finishes tugging it over his shoulder before throwing his eyes toward the present Lucy beside him.

"Yep, started pretty soon after all that began to fade," he explains, gesturing gently to the wounds marring Lucy's face. "Didn't like the idea of you not knowing how to defend yourself in the case I couldn't be there, so I taught you how to kick ass with your fists as much as you could with your brain. Didn't expect you to turn out better than I was though." He grins and Lucy's eyes go a little wide. The closest to true physical fighting she had ever come was with Emma not even a week earlier and her face was striking evidence of how well that turned out. The thought of her being a better fighter than Wyatt, especially this future Wyatt, is a lot for her to believe.

"Feeling up to a challenge, Logan?" Wyatt asks his younger self, nodding his head towards his Lucy who had just begun removing the wrap on her hands but freezes at her partner's words.

"A—A challenge?" He asks for clarification.

"Yeah," the older Wyatt smirks. "I get the feeling you could use a good refresher, and she'll go easier on you than I will." If he knew any better (and he did, as he was quite literally talking to himself) he'd think this Wyatt is almost daring him to fight his Lucy, prodding him. He hasn't exactly had all the training amenities he did before the Rittenhouse explosion, but this isn't a skill that's easy to forget. What the hell?

"Yeah okay," he accepts, and he can feel his Lucy's wide eyes shift towards him. "I could do with some refreshing." The future pair meet eyes for a moment, sharing a silent conversation. He wonders if he and his Lucy do that so obviously, or if it's a trademark they have yet to develop.

Lucy finishes unwrapping her hands before stepping back towards the more open space of the hallway, gesturing to the are in front of her. He's still in his t-shirt and flannel pajama plants, but it's not like he hasn't fought in worse.

"Are you sure this is a great idea?" Lucy asks as Wyatt comes to stand beside her. "I mean she's—"

"She's one of the best fighters I've ever trained," he cuts her off with an obvious sense of pride. "She—you—don't take to it right away, and believe me she's still just a clumsy as you in almost every other situation, but you two share that razor sharp mind, and it transferred here better than I could have ever hoped." She has so many more questions, but when she looks up at him, he's clearly locked into the scene in front of him. Brows furrowed, one arm crossed over his chest while the other hand rubs across the hair on his face, and his eyes presently trained on his Lucy, flicking furiously as if analyzing every move she makes, so much more of a silent, patient observer than the Wyatt she knows. Her eyes transfer to the point of his focus. As she looks at them she can't help but think how odd it looks seeing them next to each other. This Lucy is only a few years older than herself, and certainly doesn't show many _physical_ signs of that difference, but there is something about the air around her that make it seem like she's lived a hundred lifetimes since the here and now.

There's a quick beat where the two size each other up, and then the fight begins. Lucy is amazed to see herself, this future version of herself, hold her own so well with her Wyatt. She's seen Wyatt fight with more bad guys than she cares to count, but it's always been a struggle for her to fully comprehend what she's seeing. History is books, words, things she can read analyze again and again until it's memorized and stored away, but it's things like this, moments so quick and fleeting, that can often fly over her head. That's why the whole "living history" idea was so hard for her to grasp in the beginning, and that's why she had a hard time believing that what she is seeing is _her._ That this woman who almost sees Wyatt's movements before he makes them, who punches, kicks, dodges, _flips_ in such finesse and confidence is _her._ But here she is. And she's in awe.

It feels like she's been watching them for hours, matching each other move for move, but it couldn't have been more than 30 seconds before this Lucy finds an opening, lands a jab square to Wyatt's nose before hooking an ankle behind his neck and bring his full weight hurtling to the ground. A minute ago she would've been positive such a move was physically impossible, but there it was, and the fight is over.

"You alright there, soldier?" Lucy chuckles as she leans down to offer Wyatt a hand. To her own relief, Wyatt laughs despite the steady stream of blood coming from his nose.

"Yeah, I'm good," he responds, wiping the red from falling into his mouth. "Guess I'm a little more rusty than I thought. You've got one hell of a jab there, Professor." She helps pull him to his feet.

"I had one hell of a teacher," she admits. "But don't tell him that." She feels more than hears the rumbling laugh that comes from the older Wyatt's chest. She glances up towards the bearded version and is a little thrown by the lack of blue in his normally startling blue eyes.

"Oh, he knows," Wyatt responds, walking towards his Lucy, his voice a little more gravely than it was a moment ago. "Lucy," he calls her direction. "Your Wyatt could use a hand getting that cleaned, don't you think?" She thinks she understands what's going on, so without another word she grabs her Wyatt by the elbow and guides him back towards the mess area and sitting him down before hurrying to grab the first aid kit.

"Head forward," she instructs, gently guiding some gauze toward the source of the bleeding. "The last thing you need is to be throwing up blood later."

"You know, I _have_ had a bloody nose or two in my day," he teases lightly, glancing up at her over the increasingly red fabric.

"Just… let me take care of you, okay?" She sighs, and lets the air settle around them for a second before adding, "She's pretty impressive, huh? Think you could actually teach me how to be that bad ass?" He quirks an eyebrow at her, his blue eyes shining.

"I think you underestimate how badass you already are, Lucy." His voice is slightly muffled behind the gauze. "She might pack a little more of a punch, but you two are still the same. I apparently taught you successfully once, so who's to say I can't do it again? Although I clearly have some refreshing of my own to do first." She can't help but laugh at that.

"Yeah she did knock you on your ass pretty easily," she lightly jabs. "But like you said, he might pack a little more punch, but you're still the same. He was where you are, and if it's you and me learning together…" she takes a deep breath. "We tend to make each other better together than if we were alone." His eyes lock with her, and she thinks he's about to say something before they're interrupted by a sound that this time can't be mistaken for what they were hearing earlier. Her head darts in that direction.

" _Wyatt!_ " A voice she only knows to be hers giggles from down the hall. There's a split second where she doesn't think she can feel more mortified, but then there's the slamming of the bathroom door, and the unmistakable sound of the chair being dragged into place.

"At least it's more subtle than putting a sock on the door," Wyatt quips, but there's a tightness to his voice that says he's almost as uncomfortable as she is.

"I don't think there could actually be anything _less_ subtle," she chokes out a laugh, hoping her blush isn't as obvious as it feels. "But despite the _incredible_ amount of awkwardness, it's kinda… umm… nice… I mean—"

"Nice to see them so in love?" He finishes for her, speaking the words she can't bring herself to say.

"They must have been through hell, Wyatt," she contemplates unable to help but glance back over her shoulder to where they all were moments ago. "Yet they're still so happy together. It just… it gives me hope." He knows there are boundaries neither of them are ready to cross yet, and he's still bleeding profusely from his nose, and there are now sounds coming from the communal bathroom that even he feels a little scandalized to be hearing, so he just settles for a hand resting on top of hers.

"Hell might be what's coming for us," he tells her. "But if it's you and me, I think we're gonna be okay."

* * *

I've never written anything related to fighting, or hand to hand combat stuff so if anything is far-fetched or just inaccurate please be gentle haha

Next chapter we'll see things from Future!Lyatt's POV, so stay tuned, and please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you, lovelies, for the support you've shown for this story! Future!Lyatt owns my soul right now, so expect more from me, centering around just them. Now for chapter 2! This one is more borderline M, but nothing too steamy (yet). Enjoy!

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The filtered light that pulls her from the comfort of sleep is one Lucy never thought she would have to see again. Memories from the bunker aren't exactly the most pleasant for her, or for any of them really. But before she can lose herself down the rabbit hole of regret and anger, a scruffy-faced soldier begins a light cascade of nips and kisses down the back of her neck, his hand finding its way up her leg, she's reminded of her life now. Not perfect by any means, but one beyond the storm of hearts being torn and shared and betrayed and stolen. One where the ghosts of what happened in these metal halls are nothing more than whispers in the past.

"You've been awake," Wyatt's gravely morning voice whispers. "For all of 10 seconds, and you're already thinking so loudly I can hear every thought." The one hand that's not being used as her pillow is beginning to tease the silky fabric of her underwear. "What can I do to help quiet them for a little while?" Her head falls back a little bit as he presses his hips into her, his hand now sneaking up the front of her—well his—shirt, relishing in the feel of the smooth skin of her stomach against his rough and worked hand.

"I think you know," she can't help but groan as he palms her breast, arching into his grasp.

"Oh?" He asks, and in the blink of an eye, she has him on his back, her knees weighing down his shoulders, and her hands in his hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck.

"You know I love it when I wake up to find your thighs this close to my head," he smirks, even with her in such a dominant position over him.

"Keep running that mouth of yours, Logan," she laughs, leaning a little closer. "We'll see how far it gets you." He goes lax for a moment, and she feels a sense of victory surge through her before he launches himself upward, throwing her backwards onto his legs. He grips her thighs to drag them behind him, leaving him sitting up with her legs wrapped snugly around his hips.

"Well that was a cheap trick," she sighs, pushing herself up onto her forearms and leaning back onto his knees.

"Eh, you know so much now that that's what I have to resort to," he laughs, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her upper body up to align with his, leaving their lips a hairsbreadth apart. "And despite all this muscle you've packed on I can still throw you around pretty easily." He quirks an eyebrow suggestively.

"Is that so?" She whispers, their lips barely brushing against each other. His evident arousal is pressing against her, so she takes her advantage and grinds onto him just enough to make him growl with need, raking her nails lightly through his hair and just a little more rough along the side of his beard. "Why don't you prove it?" His normally bright blue eyes are dark, and she's fairly certain hers look about the same. She slightly pities the Lucy and Wyatt down the hall that don't get to wake up to this each morning.

"Meet me in the hallway," he breathes, letting his tongue flick across her parted lips just enough to make her shiver.

"Be quick, soldier," she responds, nipping slightly at his lower lip. "I'm ready for you to show me just how good you can throw me around." She doesn't fail to notice his groan as she pushes her hips against his one last time just for good measure before standing up.

As she pulls the large t-shirt up and over her head, tossing it onto the pile of dirty clothes, she considers how far they've come together. It's difficult to think of anything else really when the freshly wounded versions of themselves are hardly more than 50 yards outside their door. It hasn't been the easiest of roads, but they're here, together, and before too long they'll have Rufus back too. Everything as it should be.

"You make it so hard for a man to stay focused on his task, Dr. Preston," he hums, his arms roping around her from behind.

"You do have an awful lot to focus on," she sympathizes mockingly. "Pulling on some shorts, bringing me my hand wraps, way too much for this early in the morning." She turns herself to face him, slinging her arms around his neck.

"And with such a beautiful, mostly naked woman seducing me," he pouts, leaning in a little closer.

"I am doing no such thing!" She argues, but the way his hands are running up and down her ribs makes her go a little weak.

"Sometimes I think that's all you know how to do," he growls. "Walking over here and taking my shirt off this killer body, it'd be enough to make any other man go wild." She just rolls her eyes playfully.

"I'm glad you have enough self-control to watch me get dressed in the morning without losing your mind," she teases, scraping her nails along the nape of his neck.

"It takes a whole lot of me, babydoll," he whispers, leaning in even closer, brushing his nose lightly against hers. "And who can blame me? I get to wake up to the most gorgeous woman every morning, and I want to remind her just how much I love her." His words make her want to melt inside and out, but with her last stitch of self-restraint she holds strong.

"Uh, Wyatt," she laughs, putting a hand in front of his seeking mouth. "You know the rule." He groans when she slips from his arms, bending over openly in front of him to dig for her sports bra and shorts.

"Remind me why we have this damn rule?" He huffs, walking across the room to get his shorts on.

"Because it's more fun this way," she explains with a chuckle before whipping the black bra over her head.

"More fun for who?" He asks, tossing her hand wraps towards her waiting hands.

"More fun for us when the fight's over and we're ten times more riled up," she smiles, sauntering his direction. "So the less distracted you are now, the sooner we can get to the good stuff. But if you need something else…" She steps right into his space, head tilted up to look into his electric eyes. "Here's a good motivator." She grips his length through the fabric of his shorts and his head drops to her shoulder, a hiss escaping his lips. But as quickly as she was in front of him, she's almost out their door.

"That's one hell of a pep talk, coach," he laughs, grabbing his wraps and running out after her.

* * *

She tries to get a kick up towards his jaw, but he catches her beneath the knee, throwing her off balance and shoving her against the wall with a hefty groan her leg still caught helplessly beneath his arm.

"Oh fuck, Wyatt," she moans, trying to regain her breath.

"Mercy?" He asks breathlessly, pushing her a little harder against the metal wall behind her.

"Not a chance," she laughs, throwing an elbow into the side of his head and getting her other knee up under his ribs. The momentum is enough to force him away from the wall so she can break free.

"Didn't think I'd _actually_ make it that easy for you, did you?" She questions in disbelief. "You trained me better than that." He throws a strike to her jaw that she catches but is quickly swept off balance when his foot collides with the back of her knee, sending her towards the ground, but before he has a chance to capitalize on her vulnerable position, she has her legs wrapped around one of his, forcing him down, and he lands hard on the concrete beside her.

"Maybe a little too well," he grunts, and he doesn't have time to blink before she's got his arms pinned under her knees in a very similar position to the one she had him in earlier. He might have the upper hand in size and brute strength, but she's learned how to use her size and agility to her advantage, however she quickly begins to feel him lift her, and she knows her moment of surprise is past. If she doesn't move soon, he'll have her pinned. She launches forward onto her hands and flips over, quickly turning to see him already back on his feet, awaiting a next move. They both take a second to circle each other, eyeing each other tauntingly, and he takes the first step, striking down onto her shoulder, but she's underneath his blow without a second thought, pushing his arm back up and nailing a strike to his ribs before reaching around his shoulder and trying to gain some leverage to force him to the ground, but he has the weight advantage on her, he doesn't budge with the lack of force behind her motion, so she takes a different approach, stabilizing herself with his shoulder joint and flipping back over his arm, bringing him to the ground with her momentum, but she's left still standing

"Dammit, Luce," he groans, the breath no longer in his lungs. "Really got that one under me." But again he's back on is feet too quickly for her to act on the advantage.

"Well I did learn from the best, "And then they're back in the heat of fists and elbows and shins and feet and again there's another moment where she thinks she might have an opening. She tries to get a hold on him that'll stick, but for that second she can't think, drawing a blank. She's too caught up in thoughts of the mission and of their past selves that are clearly watching them down the hall and Rufus and everything, and it's in that second of hesitation that he catches her off guard with the hand that hadn't been at eye level. He has her pinned before she can breathe again, his rough fingers pushing against the soft skin of her throat, the look in his eyes something dark and angry. She might've been concerned if this wasn't Wyatt, _her_ Wyatt. She lets her hand come to rest atop his, showing her surrender. Her head drops to the concrete with a light _thunk._

"Dammit. I fell for it again," she laughs, and there's an immediate change in his demeanor. Gone is the masked, goal-oriented soldier, and here is her Wyatt, soft, concerned, and kneeling tenderly at her side, wiping a stray strand of hair from her forehead.

"Gotta watch for both hands, Luce," he tells her in a firm voice, but she can hear the concern he's trying to shadow beneath. For as much as they both love their morning sparring, Wyatt, in these moments, is harshly reminded of the darker reason why they began in the first place. One wrong move, one moment of distraction, one missed action, and she could be ripped away from him the way Rufus was ripped from them all those years ago. He refuses to take that chance with Lucy.

"I know that," she sighs, bringing her other hand up to run along his face. "Just have a lot on my mind."

"Well when isn't that the case?" He smirks and she just rolls her eyes despite the gentle flutter in her heart. "You have to be ready for anything, even when there's a lot going on in that ginormous brain of yours." He gestures with his eyes over to where their younger counterparts have been spying. "Isn't that right, Master Sergeant?" He calls to the clean-faced Wyatt without looking away from her quite yet.

"You have two hands," he answers. "One for distracting and one for fighting." He had told her the story of how he developed this unique fighting style of his once upon a time, and she can't say she had been surprised. He had always been sharper of mind than he let on, the four languages he spoke being only the beginning.

Their audience reminds her that she's in much more minimal clothing than she prefers to be in with anyone that isn't Wyatt… although it seems silly as the only people seeing her in this state are Wyatt and herself, but regardless the second Wyatt has her back on her feet, she's pulling on the old t-shirt of his she'd found earlier.

"You two…spar together?" The younger Wyatt hesitantly asks.

"Every morning," she answers, throwing a smile to her Wyatt over her shoulder. "For almost exactly five years." He meets her gaze as he finishes yanking his own shirt over his torso, and they share a moment of nostalgia, thinking to the time when _they_ were _them,_ the two lost souls standing just a few feet away, and how a morning some five years ago yet somehow still a week from now, he would have dragged her from bed way too early and told her with no humor in his it was time for her to learn to defend herself.

"Yep," he breaks his stare with her to throw it towards her younger self. "Started pretty soon after all that began to fade," he explains, gesturing gently to the wounds marring Lucy's face. "Didn't like the idea of you not knowing how to defend yourself in the case I couldn't be there, so I taught you how to kick ass with your fists as much as you could with your brain. Didn't expect you to turn out better than me though." She almost burst out laughing at the look of shock on Lucy's face, but she can't blame her. They had never been one for physical altercations of any kind. If they were ever going to engage in a fight, it would be settled with words and wits. Yet here she is, fully capable of both. Her hands breathe relief as she undoes the wraps, ready for a hot shower, some coffee, and Wyatt (or, if she had it her way, a shower _with_ Wyatt and then coffee made only by his capable hands), but is thrown when she hears her Wyatt throw a gauntlet to his younger self.

"Feeling up to a challenge, Logan?" A what?

"A—A challenge?" The baby-faced Wyatt clarifies. Her fighting Wyatt? The Wyatt that's not quite her Wyatt? It's an odd and confusing request, but one she doesn't find herself adamantly opposed to.

"Yeah," her Wyatt nods. "I get the feeling you could use a good refresher, and she'll go easier on you than I will." It's probably true. Wyatt is a merciless fighter, even with her, and no one is more aware than she is of the ever present disdain he holds for this Wyatt, the Wyatt so blinded by guilt that he put all of them at risk. The poor kid wouldn't stand a chance against the more advanced version of himself.

"Yeah okay." She smiles to herself when he accepts. This is going to be fun. "I could do with some refreshing." Her Wyatt grabs hold of her eyes for another second.

 _Kick his ass, babydoll._ Wyatt tells her. _He needs it._

Lucy just passes him a sly smile. _I'll try my best, sweetheart._ She finishes unwrapping her hands, figuring it's only fair for them to be matched, and makes her way back out into the center of the hallway, silently showing him she's ready to fight and he's just as welcome to join her.

"Are you sure this is a great idea?" Lucy asks Wyatt as he makes his way to her side. He has to stop himself from scoffing at the question because this Lucy really doesn't have reason to believe it _would_ be a good idea. "I mean she's—"

"She's one of the best fighters I've ever trained," He interrupts her, hoping he can appropriately explain to her how amazing she is, no matter which version. "She—you—don't take to it right away, and believe me she's still just a clumsy as you in almost every other situation, but you two share that razor sharp mind, and it transferred here better than I could have ever hoped." She looks up to him like she's ready to ask another question, but his senses are already honed in on his Lucy. Her beauty and prowess are always worthy of his full attention, but it's her skill he intends to analyzes in this moment, watching for the things she does well and for things she can improve upon. Well, at least that _was_ his intention, but with his Lucy before him and a Lucy that will one day become his beside him, his mind drifts.

* * *

" _Wyatt, what the hell?" Lucy groans as he shakes her from sleep. He might regret it later, but he's fresh off a nightmare, pulsing with adrenaline, and ready to do whatever he needs to do to ensure the horrors of his dreams never become reality. It's been almost two weeks since they lost Rufus. The wounds on her face are fading to scars._

" _Get dressed," he demands unable to completely mask the fear in his voice. "I'm teaching you to fight." He does his best not to snap as she just scoffs and rolls away from him, pulling the blanket back over her shoulder._

" _Have you been drinking?" She asks, voice dripping with sarcasm, yet they both know it's a legitimate question. "'Cause that is the only way that that sounded like a good idea to you." He just huffs at her mocking accusation._

" _Nope," he tells her. "Sober and sane. C'mon. Get up."_

" _Maybe at a more not insane time of day," she growls, but he's not having it. He reaches out and gently forces her to face him._

" _Lucy," he pleads. "Please." She opens her eyes to meet his. The look on his face is one she hasn't seen since the day he almost allowed himself to die at the Alamo, and she's immediately shaken from her sleepy stupor. Whatever is still broken between them, he needs her, and if dragging her out of bed ridiculously early is the way for her to bring him back from this panic, then that's what she's going to do._

" _Alright," she agrees softly, smiling up at him. "Give me just a second, okay?" A brief, weak smile comes across his face._

" _Meet me in the hallway?" Once she nods in agreement, he's out the door, leaving her to get dressed in the most athletic attire she could scrounge together, wondering if he'll share what has him so shaken._

" _Is that all you have?" He asks as she meets him outside her room. She knows he doesn't mean it in a derogatory way, but she casts him a glare regardless._

" _I wasn't exactly issued sparring gear when I first showed up," she bites back, and he immediately corrects himself._

" _You're just gonna want to have as much range of motion as possible," he explains. "I didn't mean—"_

" _No, Wyatt, I'm sorry for snapping," she apologizes before shrugging. "This is all I have right now." He just nods and gestures for him to come stand in front of him._

" _We're gonna start off real basic, okay? Fighting 101," he informs her. "Basic punches, basic kicks, basic stance, and how to apply all of them without tripping." A smile breaks across her face at his light jab at her clumsiness. At least he's still enough of himself to joke with her. "Feet shoulder width apart," he directs. "Leaning into your dominant one." He looks her over once to ensure she's got a solid stance before proceeding. "Okay, hands up." He brings his hands up towards his face, expecting her to mirror, but as soon as she does, he's reaching out to adjust her. "Keep them partially open," he explains, prying at her tightly-fisted fingers. "You have time to close them before striking, but if you see a fist coming at you, the split second you'll need to think to open your hand to block will be a split second too many. It also gives you the options to strike with the ball of your hand." He runs his fingers across the mentioned area on her palm. "The bone there carries a lot more force behind it than the ones in your fingers." She nods in understanding and brings her hands back up in front of her face._

" _So I'm going to hold my hands up and out, and you're going jab at my left hand with your right, got it?" She nods, yet eyes his hand incredulously as he slowly sways in front of her. This feels ridiculous, but she's already roped herself in. Her fist half-heartedly makes connection with his open palm. He just straightens up, dropping his hands, and gives her a look._

" _Well that was a bull shit shot," he points out, and she sighs._

" _Wyatt—"_

" _Lucy, there could come a day just like in 1888 where I am_ not _there to protect you, and if it hadn't been for Flynn, you would be dead. Dead because not only did I fail to protect you, but because I failed in preparing you for a time where I might not be there. I will never let that mistake happen again. So could you just humor me?Please?" She's struck silent by the powerful emotion in his words, crashing over her like a tidal wave when she expected barely a ripple in the surface. There is no room for doubt in the way he speaks. He means it. So she complies, bring her slightly open hands back up to eye level, and a bright smile that almost wrecks her aching heart comes across his face. How long has it been since he smiled like that?_

" _Good. Alright, now hit me like you mean it."_

* * *

The Lucy beside him gasps as his Lucy lands a square shot to Wyatt's nose, disorienting him enough for her to get her ankle behind his neck and yank him flat to the ground.

The first time she'd used that move on him, he didn't believe what he had seen and as soon as he was back to his feet had asked her to do it again. She had complied (albeit with a skeptical look on her face) but when she'd attempted to repeat it, she couldn't get it right, thinking too hard about what exactly she'd done. But then she'd done it again a few days later in the heat of a fight with a large Rittenhouse agent, throwing him to the ground with the power in her legs like it was nothing. He'd realized after that, that it might be something that just flows from her in the moment when she's not over-thinking or second-guessing herself, the moment his historian becomes a warrior.

He feels a surge of pride pulse into his heart and a shot of adrenaline pulse through his blood, a hunger beginning to reawaken.

"You alright there soldier?" His Lucy asks his fallen counterpart, offering him a hand.

"Yeah, I'm good," he responds, swiping at some of the red discharge falling from his nose. "Guess I'm a little more rusty than I thought. You've got one hell of a jab there, Professor." He grabs her hand, and she hoists him to his feet.

"I had one hell of a teacher," she admits, glancing slyly his direction. "But don't tell him that." He can't help but chuckle at that. He knows her edge in combat has less to do with him having any teaching ability and more to do with her untapped reservoir of power.

"Oh, he knows," he plays along, her darkened brown eyes falling to his. They've both waited long enough."Lucy," he calls toward the younger version of the woman who currently holds his attention. "Your Wyatt could use a hand getting that cleaned, don't you think?" He's fairly certain Lucy's clued into his unspoken intentions because it's not a moment later she's herding her Wyatt in the direction of the kitchen, leaving him with the object of his strong desires.

"Pretty good brawl there, Luce," he flatters, bringing his hands to rest on her waist.

"He was a pretty good opponent," she shrugs, settling her arms atop his.

"Be careful there," he teases. "Might get me thinking you're on the market for a new training partner."

"I might be," she smirks, reaching a hand up to rake through his hair, earning her a low warning growl. "But not him though, not enough of a challenge there."

"I will say watching you knock me on my ass, it's… well… it was pretty hot," he admits shamelessly.

"I think that's arrogant somehow," she laughs, letting her hand not preoccupied in his hair fall along the front of his shirt. "Some weird time-travel version of narcis—" He doesn't bother letting her finish the floundering statement, instead finally landing his lips onto hers for the first time all morning, and based on her response, she has no complaints.

Her fist tightens in his hair as his tongue eagerly seeks out hers, a small whimper escaping at the first touch, and he groans into her mouth as her nails scratch down his now cotton-covered chest. He catches her tongue between his teeth as it begins to withdraw, denying her request to pull away while simultaneously pulling a low moan from her throat. Breathing be damned. He needs her.

His hands grip her thighs with no care for the marks her may leave and gives a sharp tug, encouraging her to jump up around his hips which she gladly does.

"You're amazing, Luce," he gasps between her core-melting kisses, his hands moving up and under the back of the faded gray shirt she'd pulled on earlier. "You're everything to me and I don't think you realize it sometimes." She push on the breaks a little after that, pulling away to listen to the language that pours from his waterfall eyes, the language that speaks only to her.

It's in the moments like these she wonders how she ever doubted. Ever doubted the immense love that he invested in her. The Lucy down the hall is struggling to comprehend just what she herself knows to be the most universal of truth.

Wyatt Logan loves her.

She leans back in, much slower this time, and presses her lips to his with a deeper kind of emotion behind it than the raw hunger that was driving them moments ago.

His mistakes still haunt him every now and again, and the fact that the piece of himself he's most ashamed of is close enough to call out to has only served to amplify the whispers. The whispers that tell him that he's too broken to be loved, too flawed to love, and too condemned to ever accept any love that might manage to shine through the cracks in his stitched-together heart. And it's been her own mission over the past five years to show him that that is everything but true.

She pulls back slowly, and a gentle hand comes to rest on her face, his thumb lightly stroking the ivory skin on her cheek.

"Think we should get breakfast now, don't ya think?" She suggests. "I could go for some coffee." She begins to unwind herself from his embrace, her feet lightly hitting the freezing bunker floor.

"Yeah, okay," Wyatt scoffs behind her. "To hell with that." A squeal rips from her throat as she's flipped over his shoulder and carried like a sandbag down the hallway.

"Wyatt!" She giggles a little too loudly. "We agreed to try and keep things subtle at least." By the time she's placed back on her feet, he has the door to the communal bathroom closed behind them.

"This is subtle," he answers innocently while dragging the chair in front of the door with a little more noise than necessary. "People shower, right? We're just being courteous guests about it and saving them some hot water." His hands roughly push her against the wall beside the door, his lips finding her favorite spot on her neck.

"Why do I get the feeling no water will actually be saved?" She quips, grabbing onto his hair as he bites down.

"Just depends on how many times you ask for more, babydoll." His breath is ragged and heavy as she drags her hips along his.

"Keep running that mouth of yours, Logan," she recalls their moment in bed earlier. "We'll see how far it gets you."

"Oh I fully intend on running it," he agrees, quickly stripping her of the shorts that have been in his way all morning. "Ma'am."

* * *

If you don't end a chapter with "ma'am" are you even writing a Lyatt fic? Lol but I did lie when I said this will only be two chapters. I'm going to have a third that picks up right after this, and we'll see where it goes from there! Thank you for reading and please feel free to leave a review! They really do make my whole day :)


	3. Chapter 3

HELLO THE FIRST SECTION OF THIS CHAPTER IS 100% RATED M. IF THAT'S NOT YOUR THING SKIP TO AFTER THE FIRST LINE.

So this chapter was definitely an uphill battle from start to finish, but after reading over, I'm pretty in love with it! I've never written smut like this so please be kind! It makes me so happy to hear that you guys are loving this fic so far. Future!Lyatt owns my soul.

Enjoy.

(My usual beta readers were asleep when I finished this and I was getting real sleepy as well, so please forgive any spelling/grammar errors.)

* * *

"Usually the victor demands his own payment first." She gasps as he kneels before her. "Figured you'd want to indulge in your spoils first." He glances up at her, his eyes dark and raw with an insatiable hunger that never fails to leave her breathless. But then there's also a blanket of adoration in his gaze, like he can't believe he's the one fortunate enough to love her in such an intimate way. She knows good and well that _she's_ really the lucky one.

"You're all the spoil I need, babydoll," he murmurs, his lips ghosting against the skin of her inner thigh. "And believe me, your pleasure is my payment." He nips lightly, sending shivers down her spine, anticipation making her fingers itch.

"Well in that case…" she grabs at his hair, pulling his mouth back up to hers. His chuckle vibrates against her still covered chest, his grin-stiff lips pushing against hers.

"Name it," he gasps against her mouth as her nails rake down his chest, dipping slightly below the waistband of his shorts. "I'm all yours."

"Well, first," she begins, tugging at his shirt. "Off. All of it." Ever an obedient soldier, he has her orders followed through in seconds, even taking it a step further to make sure she's also rid of her clothes as well, but becoming a little irritated when he has to maneuver his way around her sports bra.

"Alright that's it," he growls, once it finally comes off, tossing the piece of fabric across the room and drawing his lips across her neck. "I'm burning all those damn bras. Too tight, too difficult to get off. Wear the ones with the hook things instead."

"When I'm training?" She chuckles, scratching at his scalp as he continues his assault across her shoulders. "That wouldn't be the most convenient."

"Then wear nothing." He suggests, his smirk evident against her skin. "Win win. Either way those sports bras have gotten in my way one too many times."

"Wyatt, just shut up about the bras." She laughs, dragging his lips back up to hers. His hands find purchase behind her thighs, encouraging her legs to again find their way around his hips. She can feel his length hard against her center, and her ache to have him inside her sends her stomach into loops, but he started something on his knees earlier and she damn well intends to see that through first.

He puts more leverage beneath her legs, pulling her off the wall and spinning them around, setting her atop the little barricade that was meant to offer some privacy, but for their intentions will do anything but. His lips blaze their trail down her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach until he's again dragging his lips across her legs, sending tremors through her.

"Wyatt," she gasps, her ache for him burning brighter by the second. "Please." His rumbling laugh reverberates against her, doing nothing to ease the fire he's begun inside of her.

"I love it when you beg." Before she even has a chance to remark, his tongue is darting out to meet her slick heat, and he's throwing her legs over her shoulders, hoisting her off the wall.

Her lower lip falls victim to her incessant gnawing as she tries to keep silent, but when he throws her back against the wall so he reach her at a better angle, she can feel her resolve for modesty crumbling.

"I can hear you thinking," he sighs. His lips move against her, causing her head to fall back against the tile. "I'd rather just hear _you_ , y'know?" She feels him shift beneath her before the sound of the shower fills the room. Despite their incredibly compromising position, she can't help but feel the swell of affection rise in her that he so often creates just because he _knows_ her. He might think it's silly, but that doesn't matter. He'll go along because it's her and he loves her. "Now feel free to make a little more noise, okay? I like hearing you." His arms wind around her thighs, opening her up just a little wider and bringing him that much closer.

She grasps onto his hair for dear life, not knowing if she could stay up straight otherwise. The strokes of his tongue start to become shorter, more focused, working her ceaselessly towards release. A gasp tears from her throat as the friction from his beard rubs against her. She doesn't know if he knows (she supposes he does) that the beard has grown to appeal to her in more ways other than just that he makes it sexy as hell. It adds a layer of sensation she hadn't known possible before, and, just as it has so many times before, pushes her right to the edge until she's crying out, trembling and falling into him.

"That's my girl," he laughs, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "I love it when you get so damn loud."

"Oh I don't think it'll be only me for much longer," she whispers huskily, dropping down from his shoulder, but keeping her mouth as close to his as she can without falling into another kiss.

"Is that s—" Before he can finish his snarky remark, she has her hand wrapped around him, cutting his words off and drawing a choked gasp from him. She slams his lips into hers, swallowing a moan as she works her hand along him.

"You've gotten a little cocky," she teases against his lips, and it takes her a second to figure out why he chuckles a little. "Pun not intended," she adds with a small laugh. "But you've been running that mouth of yours a little too much this morning, and so all I want to hear from you until we're finished is 'yes ma'am' or 'oh, Lucy' and any other noises that might go along with this, got it?" He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, and she almost loses her breath at the intensity, the desire that drown his normally hypnotic cobalt eyes. His tongue takes a leisurely pass along his lips, and she knows it worked. He calls her a bossy, know-it-all but has never bothered to mention just how much it gets him worked up, and he doesn't have to; she knows.

"Yes, ma'am," he whispers before shoving them under the piercing spray of the water, devouring her lips in a bruising kiss that has her seeing the fireworks behind her eyes. Damn, if this man didn't know how to kiss.

She releases her hold on his shoulders, one hand escaping into the wild mess of his hair, the other scratching across the length of his upper back, moving with the planes of solid muscle. His hands fall down her back, not neglecting to give her ass an appreciative squeeze on the way, before gripping the back of her thighs and pulling her up against him.

There's been enough foreplay for seven rounds since they woke up, so they both forgo any hesitation, Lucy lifting up her hips just enough to meet him halfway.

"Oh, _fuck_ , Lucy," he moans against her shoulder.

"Yeah," she chokes out, her head resting against his. "Told you it'd be better to wait." He nips at her shoulder in playful retaliation and silencing her with a sudden powerful thrust of his hips.

"Now who's running their mouth?" He jabs, finding her lips again with his. She laughs against his lips, but it's cut short as he pushes into her again. Any coherent words fade into the long winded moans he draws from her. The slick wall provides good support but also enough mobility for her to actively meet him thrust for thrust, and with each motion she can feel the coil tightening in her stomach, begging to snap.

All her muscles ache, but she knows the ledge is getting closer, and she wants him falling over it with her, so she harnesses all the power she has left to tighten around him. Either he understands her motives or he has the same idea as her because as soon as she begins to work him harder, the hand that had found itself buried in her hair darts in between them, adding another layer of friction that has her head falling back against the wall. As his thrusts become more sporadic, his lips desperately seek out hers, drinking in all of her screams and spilling moans onto her tongue. His thumb begins to work fast against her for just a moment before she's crying out, slumping into his body as he continues to chases his own release.

Her arms link around his back, drawing him closer so she can whisper encouragement into his ear. There's a moment of stillness before he's trembling against her, the warmth that fills her spreading all the way into her heart.

"God, I love you, Lucy," he murmurs into her hair, the water from the shower still cascading around them.

"I love you." Her reply comes out as an exhausted exhale, her breath still not quite back to normal. "But…" She drops her legs from around his waist. "We really should move on to the shower portion. I don't want to be on the receiving of any grief from any of our co-residence about the lack of hot water." He lets his hands fall around her middle, giving it a loving squeeze and a quick kiss to her swollen lips before releasing his hold one her.

"Yeah, I guess you're probably right," he sighs, watching her appreciatively as she bends over to pick up her shampoo. "Mason and Flynn are insufferable enough _with_ hot water. It'd be a shame if any physical altercations were to transpire because one of them couldn't deal with a cold shower." He fails to keep the the wry smirk off his lips, but she just rolls her eyes.

"Oh, yeah, you'd _hate_ that," she scoffs, lathering the lavender scented shampoo through her chopped hair.

He shrugs innocently. "I've got no hard feelings there, Luce. None at all."

"Uh huh." Her agreement dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm serious," he insists, pulling her back into him. "Not when I'm the lucky bastard who gets to see you all wet and soapy and happy." He pulls her hands out of her hair and begins to work his own fingers through, taking good care to massage her scalp until a light moan tears from her throat.

"I think I might be the lucky one," she sighs when his hands begin to work the base of her neck and down to her shoulders.

"I'm just giving back, Luce." His voice is softer, but she can sense the shift in his tone, all teasing long gone. "I don't think I'll ever be able to make up for all of my mistakes." She opens her eyes just in time to see the flash of insecurity make its first appearance of the morning, but before she has a chance to fight it, he's shrugging it off. "So I'll take any opportunity to give back." Knowing that no words she can offer will ever free him of the mental chains he carries, she just presses up on her toes to meet her lips to his however briefly.

They're not perfect. With the lives they've lived she doubts they'll ever be any kind of ideal. Always a little broken, a little bruised, a little burdened, but she can take all of it, so long as they're broken together.

* * *

Another day passes while calculations and adjustments are made to the two separate Lifeboats. They all try not to think about why it's taking so long. It's a tangible humidity in the bunker, the thought that looms over them. Lucy can feel it sticking to her skin, making her squirm. She believes that after five years the thought shouldn't cut so deep, but it does. There's still a moment when she and Wyatt get in the Lifeboat where they both forget, neither of them making the move towards the pilot seat.

Five years.

Shouldn't it be easier?

The way Wyatt catches her eye, wearing that look, ' _I know what you're thinking. I'm thinking it too'_ tells her that she's not alone.

Any natural light has faded from the rusted halls of the bunker and her weary eyes begin to blur the words of the paragraph she's read and reread countless times in her tired haze.

"Time for bed, Luce?" The sudden closeness of his voice nearly jumps her out of the wobbly dining chair, but a warm hand soothing its way down her back brings her balance. "I'm gonna take that as a yes." His laugh is so full of affection that in her sleepy state it almost makes her tear up. "You only get that jumpy when you've passed tired and gone straight to exhausted." But as he tries to guide her from the rickety metal chair, she stills him with a gentle hand running across the soft hair on his face, taking the second to just stare into the eyes that whispered to her love sonnets Shakespeare couldn't rival. It's Rufus, but it's also the presence of the two very broken versions of themselves sitting just a few feet away that has them both on that emotional ledge, and the only safety net is each other.

She leans forward to place the slightest of kisses against his lips just as a reminder that through all the uncertainty, he is consistent, unyielding, unrelenting in his love for her. They're going to be okay.

They remain caught in each other's gaze for another heartbeat before he grabs hold of her hand, tilting his head in the direction of their room.

"C'mon," he whispers tenderly, lacing his fingers through hers, guiding her up and out of the chair. They walk so close that their shoulders bump with each step, and it doesn't help that she can hardly keep her eyes open, but, once they're out of sight of everyone else, she almost yelps as he scoops her off the ground, cradling her against his solid chest.

"I'd like to take credit for you being so worn out, but I think you're stressing yourself sick, Lucy," he tells her as they continue the small trek to their quarters. "I know it comes about as naturally to you as breathing, maybe even more so, but it's only going to hinder us in the long run, and make me sick alongside you in the process." She curls into him a little more, running a hand absentmindedly along his shirt.

"I know," she sighs. "I'm trying to be better." He turns them around to force the steel door open with his shoulder before placing her down on the mattress and kneeling down beside her, wiping the hair that's fallen in front of her eyes.

"Let me make one thing very clear, Lucy Logan—"

"Wyatt, we're not married." She reminds him with a mischievous smirk, but he just scoffs, waving away her remark.

"That's besides the point. Don't try to change the subject." He reaches for one of the hands that found home beneath her cheek, bringing it to his lips. "There is no 'better' than you, Lucy. Not in any category, ever, 'kay? I just want you to channel all that energy into something other than re-reading one section of a book you've already read a thousand times, biting on your lips, and making yourself sick. You're too important. To the team, to the mission, and to me." A smile pushes at one side of her mouth. "So please take care of yourself? If not for yourself, then maybe for your husband-not-husband that you're worrying half to death?" She chuffs but still nods with intention. "Promise?" He asks, holding out his index finger.

" _Promise,"_ she agrees, locking her finger with his, their own version of a pinky swear that originated from a story she told him a few years back about hers and Amy's pinky promises.

 _Pinkies break too easily, Lucy. Why put promises on them? I trust my trigger finger better._

He seems satisfied with her affirmation, so he stands up, presses a quick kiss to her head before heading towards the closet to change out of his clothes. She has her eyes shut, but when she hears the sound of fabric flopping to the floor, she can't help but sneak a look in his direction, only to find one of his shirts flying at her the moment she does.

"Rude," she grumbles after the shirt plops down directly over her face.

"I knew you'd look eventually," he points out with a cocksure grin, pulling a pair of shorts on.

"You're an ass sometimes, you know that?" She sighs after yanking her tank top up and off her body, but her face fails to hide her amusement. "If you thought you were getting any tonight, think again." Before she even has the large shirt tugged all the way down to her legs, he's worked his way up the bed in a manner that makes him seem as graceful as a panther until he's nestled on top of her, his head resting on her chest.

"You love me," he reminds her. As if she could ever forget. "Plus as far as the 'getting any' goes, I think I'd just rather wait til the morning. You're strategy of getting all riled up first definitely has its perks." Her hands find his way into his hair, scraping and tugging and making him practically purr with joy. There's something about her hands in his hair that she can't get enough of, maybe it's the feeling of domesticity they've never gotten to experience, or maybe it's the fact that it's one of the only times she feels him truly relax, all the tension he carries like stones atop his shoulders leaking from his muscles. Maybe it's just _him_ she can't get enough of.

"I'm gonna kick your ass tomorrow," she states before closing her eyes.

"Oh, I'm counting on it, babydoll."

* * *

She feels him moving beside her before the rest of her senses awake, his arms tightening around her waist and his nose brushing against her hairline as he scans the room, immediately seeking out any eminent danger.

"Nope," she murmurs, burrowing her face further into his neck. "Too early. No danger. Go back to sleep."

"No danger," he agrees."But listen, Luce." One eye tears open to look up at him. His long hair is wild, but his eyes hold a certain softness that she rarely sees unless focused solely on her. Intrigued as to what has him so awake at the ungodly hour, she sits up a little more, blinking the sleep out of her tired eyes and rolling onto her stomach to better follow his ocean gaze. They lay there, unmoving and silent, as they have in so many parts of history, usually in attempt to avoid a potential threat, but in this instance she can't yet understand _why_ they're having to sit rigid in their own bed, holding any and all breath deep in their chest.

"Wyatt I don't hear—"

He shushes her quickly with hushed intensity, and she just shakes her head, settling her chin onto her pillow, waiting for whatever sound he's listening for. There's a lengthy moment of silence and her eyes begin to fall closed, sleep encroaching upon her senses, but then she hears it, and her head shoots up from the pillow.

The words are indistinguishable, too distant and too rushed even for her trained ears, but a smile has broken across Wyatt's face, clearly aware of something she isn't yet keyed into. She sits up and leans her head in closer to his, turning her face in towards him, hoping to catch a little more of the noise.

"—is ridiculous." She still has yet to find comfort with hearing her own voice coming from a different source, but it becomes quickly evident that that is exactly what she's hearing, what woke Wyatt from sleep in the first place. A faint smile ghosts across her lips at the idea that even in the depths of slumber, any sound of her voice could wake him. "I'm fine with the idea of learning how to fight or whatever, but, geez, Wyatt it's barely past 5. Couldn't it have waited 'til a little more sane time of day?"

"I figured you'd want to start in a little more private setting." His response is quick, yet there's a shadow behind his words, casting what anyone else would hear as a legitimate statement into doubt for her.

It's a half truth at best. Wyatt Logan, no matter what version, could think on his feet, concocting cocktails thick with masked lies and vulnerable truths, better than most anyone. It came with the territory of his— _their—_ unconventional professions. But since the beginning, since the Hindenburg almost a decade ago, she could drink the mix he brewed, strong as it was, one right after another, and continue to see straight. Her only buzz coming from the knowledge of _him,_ his darkest corners illuminated in her presence. She could see the parts of him he tried to hide from everyone else. It's how she knew back then that his fascination with Kate Drummond went much deeper than any simple attraction, and it's how she knows now that he doesn't actually give a shit about privacy.

She wonders if it was a nightmare that drew this Wyatt to this Lucy as it had for them so many years ago. She wonders if he'll reveal it to her now, the terror sleep brings to him after knowing how close she was to death, or if it'll take time to rebuild that trust. If it'll take being forged in the flames of a war neither of them expected to be drafted into, forged together, unbreakable, inseparable, to finally crack him open, to be able to share his heart without the fear that she would turn away from him.

She secretly hopes that their presence will be the catalyst these younger versions of themselves need. That because of them it won't take Lucy over a year to find herself crawling into his bed, wrapping herself around him, murmuring that she's ready. That maybe it won't take Wyatt another 6 months after that to whisper those three little words again... because despite his insistence that she hadn't needed to say them back, the lack of response closed the words into a dark dusted drawer in the farthest corner of his heart.

But it's her own rule that prevents them from meddling. Enough will be changed by their attempt to save Rufus, and while she knows it's a long road for the Lucy and Wyatt currently arguing over when is a proper time of day to wake up, there is a greater part of her that knows that in any universe, in any timeline, it's them. It's Lucy and Wyatt, Logan and Preston.

The conversation that they've begun eavesdropping on, however, might make anyone else think otherwise.

"I can barely function at a _normal_ time without caffeine, Wyatt. For the love of God could we at least put a pot on?"

"You are so _gripey_ in the morning, you know that, Lucy?"

"I think I have a right to be! Or did you forget that you're the one that shook me awake in a panic while I was getting the first good night's sleep I've had in months?"

"Well I'm _so_ sorry I want you to be safe!"

"Coffee first or it's not gonna be me who needs be able to defend themselves!"

She can't help but hide her face in the crook her Wyatt's neck, a quiet laugh shaking her shoulders.

"Am I really that snappy in the morning?" She whispers, trying to hide her embarrassment and the heat in her cheeks.

"Back then you were," he chuckles, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. "I think I tricked you into loving me with all the coffee I made for you."

"No trick," she insists. "I understood why you did it and that's why I fell in love with you. No way into my heart quite like coffee." He's near breathless at the wave of affection that courses through him for the woman beside him. It's a love he's never experienced until her, until their second chance.

"Then after that night you found your way into bed with me," he continues. "I discovered a way to make you much more agreeable to wake up to, maybe even giddy some would say." She loves the way his lips feel moving against her forehead. For some reason the physical aspect of feeling his words against her skin makes them all the more real.

"Giddy, huh?" She lifts her head to bring them face to face again, a mischievous look visible in her eyes even in the darkness. "Who told you that? Cause I think they may have been simply trying to inflate your ego." He silences her with a quick kiss to her grinning lips.

"Trust me; I have it on good authority."

She brings a gentle hand to run across his bearded jaw, drawing his lips back into hers again. It's soft and lingering, but speaks everything she wants him to know, every feeling she longs to share. It feels ridiculous, the nerves that flutter around in her stomach, that the sight of their younger selves, literally _them,_ is having such an intense effect on her. But she remembers. She can feel the tugging of the scabs on her face like they're still healing, can feel the constant hunger gnawing at her insides, and there have been moments where she can even feel the curls she once wore tumbling down across her shoulders. With those phantom aches comes the very real pain, remembering how close they came to losing everything.

It's ridiculous. She's aware of this.

"I know," he whispers softly, pressing a tender kiss to her palm. "I feel it too." She knows the words never left her lips, but there's no surprise that he heard it anyway. Words have been the most obsolete form of communication for them. Quite frankly, they both suck at them. But it's made up through the way he feels her muscles tense and knows she feels backed into a corner, through the way she sees his jaw tighten and knows to run a hand along his forearm to calm him. It's what happens when two people are forged together, when life turns up the heat so high that there's no other choice but to become one. One mind, one heart.

He settles back into the bed before stealing her to his chest, guiding her head to his shoulder.

"Do you think this is the beginning for them?" She murmurs, absentmindedly drawing shapes onto his broad chest.

"The beginning?" He questions, shifting his head to look at her.

"Of...us."

The arguing beyond the steel door of their bedroom has faded, leaving only the whispers of a quiet conversation.

"I think… they've got a hell of a chance at making every possibility a reality." It's a fairly cheesy answer from her normally stone cold soldier, yet it's everything she needs to hear.

Her head finds home against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat is strong and steady and the most sure thing she's ever known.

And in the moment before sleep finds her, she smells coffee.

* * *

If you like the fanfiction you read, you leave a review. It's what you do.

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	4. Chapter 4

I could spend hours on here talking about why I hate NBC and how they killed our beloved show, BUT I won't give NBC the time of day and I also really believe there is hope for a pick up. Plus y'all came here to read Lyatt goodness and not listen to me ramble.

Thank y'all so much for your constant support and love that you've given this story, and I hope this chapter brings you all the feels.

Without further ado…

* * *

It's with tired, yet inquisitive eyes that she watches them, these future versions of themselves, as Wyatt whispers things to his Lucy with an affectionate smile seeping across his face. It feels too intimate for her to be witnessing, even though it's nothing more than hushed words and silent smiles, but her eyes won't look away.

It's been evident to her and all the other occupants of the bunker that their two guests are involved. From all she'd seen, however it appeared that their involvement was more heat-filled lust than anything overtly romantic, leaving her to wonder if that's all they had to be.

That had been her fear until now.

The way his hand falls across her back to assure her that he's there, in front of her, behind her, protecting her from any and all outside threats.

The way she runs a hand across his cheek, just taking the time to gaze up at him before pressing the most tender of kiss to his lips.

The way they lace their hands together to walk down that hallway, falling into each other with each step.

All of these fleeting moments whispering to her that there is a future where she and Wyatt heal and find themselves and each other amidst all the chaos.

It begins a renewal of hope in her heart, and she thinks that for the first time in months, she might sleep well tonight.

* * *

" _Lucy,_ " an urgent voice whispers through the clouds of her dream, and her ground begins to shake, but, no, it isn't the ground, it's her, or at least someone shaking her, and then she hears it again. " _Lucy."_

Her eyes snap open, and he's just there.

Wyatt, standing over her, a lost kind of panic in his eyes, but her emotions bypass any concern for him with a startling frustration _at_ him.

"What the _fuck,_ Wyatt?" She snaps. He recoils just a bit, shocked at that certain explicative leaving her lips, and she can't blame him, she a little shocked too. But then a soft smirk flashes across his lips ( _dammit, Lucy, don't look at his lips),_ and a fresh wave of irritation crashes over her. He doesn't get to wake her up in a frenzy and then look at her like that. Her heart can't take these kind of mood swings. Her heart really can't take _him_ in general, not without losing rhythm.

"Language, Dr. Preston," he chuckles dryly, and it's all she can do not to smack him.

"Care to tell me why you felt the need to barge into my room at…" she picks up her phone to glance at the time. "4:57 in the morning, Wyatt? Are you serious? You know, our chance for booty calls is a little past expired." Her face flops into the pillow, but she can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, okay, smartass," he scoffs. "C'mon, get up." He begins tugging the covers off her. "I'm teaching you how to fight."

"I'm sorry," she huffs, sitting up on the creaky mattress. "What part of this conversation made you think that would be something I was interested in right now?"

"You said you wanted to learn how to be as badass as your Tomb Raider doppelganger, and no time better than the present, right?"

"Yeah, well, whoever came up with that horrible cliche was clearly not been woken up by their partner at such an obscene hour," she shoots back. "And plus you said I was already badass, so I think I'm gonna coast on that for a while, or at least until the sun comes up." She falls back against the bed and closes her eyes, but his presence lingers.

"Lucy," he whispers breathlessly. " _Please_." The sharp change in tone shakes her from her annoyance, and in his eyes she finds something aimless and desperate, something she hasn't seen since a hot, arid afternoon in 1834 where he had almost thrown his life away.

Things between them are still fragile, healing at best, broken at worst, but despite everything, he's still her partner, and she's going to be there for him, just like he always has been for her.

"Okay, fine," she sighs, running a hand through her tangle of curls. "Just let me change first."

"Why?" He asks incredulously. "What you're wearing is fine."

"A tank top and pajama shorts?" She clarifies. "Really?" He just shrugs like it's obvious, and she scoffs. "Well can I least put a bra on?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," he agrees, a little flustered. "Just, um, meet me in the hallway? When you're ready?" She nods, and he quickly takes his exit, leaving her to wonder exactly what the hell that was and what's got him so on edge. She sighs and throws her feet to the floor. He'll tell her when he's ready.

* * *

She tries to remember just exactly _why_ she agreed to this as she pads across the bitter cold floors of the hallway, shivering, hungry, still a little irked to be awake, and worst of all, caffeine deprived.

Her feet carry her straight past where Wyatt is waiting, towards the medieval coffeemaker of their stone age bunker, thinking it's the least he can do to wait for her to brew something before she starts punching things.

"Right here, Lucy."

"Yeah I see that," she throws over her shoulder. "Just making some coffee first."

"Wait, what? No, we need to get started." The urgency in his voice just adds another question mark to the end of her curiosities about what led them here, but she can hardly think before her blood is spiked by caffeine, so she continues on her quest to the kitchen.

"Hey, I got out of bed for this, didn't I?" She snaps, turning to face him. "Asking me to do anything physical this early before coffee is ridiculous. I'm fine with learning how to fight or whatever but, geez, Wyatt, it's barely past five. Couldn't it have waited for a little more sane time of day?"

"Well I figured you'd want to start in a little more private setting," he explains with an edge of annoyance creeping into his own voice, but she isn't buying it for a second. Wyatt Logan Lie Detector could practically be her job title.

"That's just bullshit and we both know it," she sighs, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Does it really matter what the reason is, Lucy?" He questions, throwing his arms up in frustration. "We're both awake and out here so we might as well just get to it."

"I can barely function at a _normal_ time without caffeine, Wyatt. For the love of god could we at least put a pot on?" Even the smell might do wonders for her this early.

"You are so _gripey_ in the morning, you know that, Lucy?" He barks, not giving a damn about the other residents who might wake up from their bickering.

"I think I have a right to be!" She bites back. "Or did you forget that you're the one who woke me up in a panic while I was getting the first good night's sleep I've had in months?"

"Well I'm _so_ sorry I want you to be safe!" He huffs, storming past her and into the kitchen before earnestly diving into the cabinets.

"Coffee first or it's not gonna be me who needs to be able to defend themselves!" It's petty and ridiculous on both of their ends but it's months of pent up anger and frustration and longing coming out in a single instance, and of course it would be coffee that's the tipping point. Something so trivial, yet the tiniest of weight needed to flip the scales.

"Yeah I got that," he huffs, pulling his hand out of the cabinet with the high quality coffee she tried to keep hidden in his grasp. Leave it to Wyatt Logan to know where her secret coffee stash was without thinking twice. "Coffee first." His voice weakens and the tension falls from his shoulders, leaving him looking so unlike Wyatt that the anger that gripped her begins to melt.

She approaches him carefully, fearing he might bolt if she moves to quick, and leans into the counter next to him.

"All of this just for the sake of privacy, huh?" She means it to be a light-hearted comment on their situation, but the way his brows furrow tells her he takes it as anything but.

"Does it really matter why, Lucy?" He mutters, scooping the dark grounds into the filter.

"Yes," she answers. "But you don't have to tell me. I mean it's not like—" She stops herself before the words can make their painful stab, but he catches her.

"Not like what?" He asks, turning to look at her, but when she remains silent, he answers his own question. "Not like I'm in the habit of telling you things? Not like I've been a shining example of being honest with you? I know, Lucy. I'm trying to be better, trying to make everything better, and if you'll just give me a second to finish this." He nods his head towards the coffeemaker. "I'll start proving it to you."

She's taken aback by his words, but more than that with the nonchalantness with which he says them. There's no biting regret or anger or passive aggression. Just blunt honesty.

So she silently takes a seat at one of the metal tables, absentmindedly playing with her fingers, and waits for him.

The minutes pass in silence until the sound of ceramic clinking against ceramic shocks her ears as he pulls two mugs from the shelf.

"Cream, too, please," she asks gently before she can stop herself. _He's already making you coffee, Lucy. Don't make it more difficult._

"I know what to do." Much to her relief, she can hear a slight smile in his voice as he lifts the small carton of half and half over his shoulder on display. She can't help the blooming affection that's been so tainted swell up in her chest. In spite of everything that's gone on between them, he stills just knows. He knows the tiniest things about her that she's never really spoken, but he picked up on because that's what you do when you love someone, isn't it? She can't say she hasn't found herself knowing the things about him that she doesn't remember learning.

Like how she knows the discrepancies in the James Bond movies compared to the books bother him to no end, and how his favorite era of American history is the 1940s and 50s, and how he prefers his bacon all but burnt but his burgers still with pink in the middle. She can't remember how or when she picked up on these things. All she knows is there was a morning when Flynn was cooking breakfast and she reminded him to make three strips of bacon extra crispy and not because she had wanted them for herself.

He sets a mug into her hand and takes a seat across from her while she relishes in the heat seeping through the the cup into her palms. His fingers fidget with the handle of his own glass, and his eyes avoid hers, but she knows he's not stalling, just gathering his bearings. Whatever it is that drew him to her this morning, it's no simple explanation.

A deep breath rushes into his lungs and he beings. "I'm no stranger to nightmares. It's honestly just an expected side effect of being in the military, and when Jess, _my_ Jess, died, that, of course, didn't help… but you gotta just adjust, you know? I mean, it's either that or let 'em beat you, and since my job depended on mental and emotional stability, I had my choice picked for me… and then all this started." He gestures vaguely around them, meeting her eyes for the first time since she sat down.

"I don't know if it's because of the time travel or what, but ever since the Hindenburg, I dream of how it all could have gone wrong." There's a pregnant pause, and she hopes he doesn't intend on leaving it at that because his words create more questions than they answer.

"What do you mean?"

He sighs and takes a sip of his coffee before continuing, "I see you and Rufus in every moment of history, in every moment we've ever interfered with, in every close call that we've managed to survive, but in my dreams… they don't play out like that, like how they really happened." When he sees that she is clearly not understanding his intentionally vague explanation, he goes where he wishes he doesn't have to and clarifies further.

"I see Rufus beaten in a jail cell in 1937, and left stranded alone in 1754, and kept as one of David Rittenhouse's slaves, and suffocating in the murder castle, and dead in that damn warehouse after Al Capone, and then again in 1888, just lifeless and cold, and just when I think it can't get worse is when I start to see you. I see you strangled by Flynn in Lincoln's Box, and shot by Nazi's, and killed by natives, burned alive in Holmes' basement, left for dead in 1954, tortured by Rittenhouse, hung as a witch, god, Lucy." A visible shutter wracks his body and his eyes grip shut. "I could keep going because those barely scratch the surface, but I think you get the point. I dream of how everything could have gone wrong. Where _I_ could've gone wrong, and how I could've lost the most important people to me." He takes another drink before driving in the final nail. "But then one of them turned out to be more than just a dream." Her lungs refuse to accept any air she tries to take in, and a wave of grief crashes over her. How had he gone through all these things alone? And a part of her feels like she should have been able to fight away all these demons he carried, yet all of this still fails to answer the original question.

"Why tonight?"

He looks up at her with hooded eyes, silently pleading for reprieve, that she wouldn't really make him relive it. But honesty is all they have to cling to now, all they have to build upon, so he'll be honest.

"I don't know exactly what happened in 1888… after Rufus… when you ran after Emma." She absentmindedly runs the tips of her fingers across the healing wounds of her face. He had never asked the details of what occured, and she hadn't wanted to share, knowing all too well he would bear the weight of this guilt, even though he had been the one to try to run after her first. "But it's all I've been seeing since."

* * *

 _It's a scene he never imagined would be played out in reality. Lucy, behind a gun, firing mercilessly at their enemy until a shot finally lands, striking Emma in the leg. She bolts towards the maniacal time-traveler, weapon still poised in front of her, but even with Emma wounded and immobile, Lucy hesitates._

 _If it had been anyone else, he would have screamed at them to finish her, finish all of this, let her die here like their pilot that she heartlessly murdered. Let her die in the past so they might have a future._

 _But this is Lucy. His Lucy. The woman who could find light in the darkest soul, guide the lost to shore, he would know better than anyone. She shouldn't have to be the one to pull the trigger… but she had been driven to madness because of this, because of Rittenhouse, because of Emma, because of_ him.

 _A sob shakes her already shaken body, and it shatters him. He wants to wake up, to flee this torment where he is forced to witness the destruction his selfishness has caused, but he can't._

" _What do you do?" She screams desperately."To someone who has taken_ everyone _you love? My mother, my sister, Rufus…" The agony in her voice shakes the ground, and why can't it just open up and swallow him?_

 _The barrel presses into Emma's temple, and the psychopath has the audacity to ask for mercy._

 _It's an impossible situation, a catch-22 he would never have wanted her to face. There's no reason not to shoot, yet still every reason in the world not to shoot. It's not what she believes, it's not what she's meant to do. He's the one who tugs on triggers and she's the one who tugs on hearts. He ends lives and she changes them._

 _Maybe it's time for the scales to balance._

 _She changed his life._

 _But he begs the universe, or God, or whatever is listening for this not to be the way indirect way he ends hers._

 _The hammer clicks… but both women are still breathing, hearts beating in anxious synch for a second before Emma takes the opening._

 _Lucy tries to hold her own, and he's so proud of her in those moments she takes Emma by surprise, but it isn't long before Emma has her pinned to the stone floor, one hand closed around her throat, and a steady barrage of strikes making contact with Lucy's face._

 _It can't be the end, he thinks._

 _It can't be the end._

 _It just can't—_

* * *

"And that's when it would usually end," he sighs, looking into the mug of now lukewarm coffee. "Flynn shows up to save the day, and you're still here." The vividness in which he describes the memory leaves her hands shaking, but she clenches her fist because it's just that, a memory, and he needs her now to be more than a trembling mess.

"Usually," she echoes. "So what was different this time?"

Despite it's less-than-appetizing temperature, he throws back the last little bit like a shot of whiskey, needing that extra second to let the words claw their way out.

"This time… I was afraid you wouldn't be."

* * *

 _Flynn, for whatever reason, doesn't find them._

 _Lucy is almost unrecognizable from the gashes stretching across the porcelain skin of her face._

 _Emma gives no inclination that she plans on stopping… until a voice cuts through the steady thuds._

" _Emma!"_

 _Still in the pink-spotted dress he'd last seen her in, with the gun she'd held up to him in hand, Jessica stops in her tracks when the scene before her becomes clear._

 _He isn't sure what he hopes for._

 _He isn't sure about anything that involves Jessica._

 _All he sees Lucy clinging onto consciousness but can feel her fading, slipping further and further away from him, and he feels part of himself falling with her._

 _He'll take anything so long as Lucy comes out alive._

" _Stop!" He feels a quick gust of relief as she barks the order at Emma, but it's such a fleeting feeling that he almost gets whiplash. "You got your shots in." The cold, almost sadistic joy on her face twists his stomach into knots. "Now it's my turn." A startling amount of anger shocks through the ginger's face._

" _What because she fucked your husband?" Emma sneers, pressing down that much harder on Lucy's throat. "You think that compares to everything this brat took from me?" Whether it's the harsh accusation, or months of pent up aggression, or years of brainwashing, Jessica's draw of her gun is at a speed like Wyatt's never seen._

" _My. Turn."_

 _There's no room for debate, and not much reason for one. Emma's unarmed, and they're still partners in this new age of Rittenhouse, so she relinquishes her grip, leaving Lucy gasping and coughing up blood onto the cold floor, and slinks away behind Jessica, who finds her gun trained on to the one who made her task of compromising the Time Team all the more simple._

 _He waits for words, soliloquies, speeches, everything you come to expect from the ones with the most to justify, but it's nothing so cliche. Like the way the old Western films he used to idolize eventually disappointed him, it's not ever like he expected. It's too fast for him to hardly comprehend._

" _I'll tell Wyatt you said bye."_

 _One shot fires._

* * *

Bile rises in her throat. At the horrid nightmare, at the way he voice cracks under all the weight, at how she can no longer blame him for darting into her room at the godawful hour just to make sure she's still there. She would've done the same thing.

"So…" he sighs, running anxious palms along his thighs. "That's why. Just knowing that I failed to prepare you, failed to protect you, I wasn't about to risk it happening again." His head falls and she can see him retreating, second guessing, doubting. "I'm sorry, Lucy," he apologizes breathlessly, standing from his chair. " I shouldn't have drug you out of bed for this. Let's just go back to sleep." He tilts his head lamely towards the bunking quarters before taking the first step away from her.

But this isn't how it's supposed to work. This isn't how it _has_ to work. If they have any hope of finding a way back together, if he meant what he said that day, if she means it every time she thinks it, feels it, exists in it, then they can't walk away, let hurt fester because they're too afraid to be vulnerable anymore. The only way to fix their shattered lives is if they take the pieces and share them, building them into one.

If they want this, then they have to fight for it every step.

She grabs onto his wrist and yanks him back to her, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him like she's fighting to prove to him that his nightmare is just that, and that what is happening now is _real_.

"I'm _here._ " she reminds him. "I'm safe."

"I can't lose you, Lucy," he whispers and she feels a soft touch of tears fall onto her shoulder. "I don't care whatever happens between us, but you deserve a life beyond this damn bunker. You deserve your sister, you deserve your mother, you deserve a life where you don't have to worry about how to shoot a gun or throw a punch. I'm so sorry that's what this has come to. I'm so sorry that I can't protect you in such a way that you never have to worry about any of that. I'm so sorry that I failed you." She clasps her hands around his face and pulls his forehead to hers. It's a gesture she's never understood until him, so intimate yet innocent, like a desperate human plea to share unspeakable feelings through the connections of minds.

"Wyatt…" She says through gritted teeth, willing him to look at her, let the floodgates open and show her the depth of his eyes. "You _have not_ failed me." And when his eyes finally meet hers, she's shocked by the flash of deja vu. Her hands anchoring him to her, his red-rimmed eyes seeking some sort of relief from the shame that's chained him to the past, hers desperate to show him something beyond the prison he's trapped himself in. They're both grieving and trying to find remission, redemption, rescue in any way possible. She has to show him that self-destruction isn't his only option, that it's possible for two broken people to find their missing piece in each other.

It's their Alamo Reprise.

At least this time there's no gunfire.

"I don't want anyone else." She whispers, tightening her hold on him. "I don't trust anyone else. I don't _need_ anyone else. Even after everything we've been through, I've never doubted the lengths you would go to keep us safe. Rufus isn't on you. _This—"_ She gestures to the fading wounds on her face. "Isn't on you. And, yeah, maybe I've lost a part of me in all of this, but what about all I've found? What about all you've taught me? What about all we've given each other? Isn't that worth something?" A breath that he's been holding for far to long rushes from his lips and he all but collapses into her, seeking the comfort of familiarity and a love neither are willing to speak of yet.

It's still too soon, but for now, breathing each other in, releasing all that had been kept too close, it's the first step to mending what's never been quite whole.

"We make quite a pair, don't we, Luce?" He chuckles, sniffing away the last of his tears. She wants to feel like it's too soon for the nickname he used only that one faraway night, but it wraps her in a hope that maybe they're not too far gone, that their future selves aren't some fluke or fault of fate, that they _will_ find their way back to each other.

Not now, not tomorrow, but the days ahead are full of possibilities, of certainties, of absolutlies.

"Alright, soldier," she smiles, pulling back from him. "Caffeine's kicked in, and you promised to teach me how to fight. I think now's a good time to get started."

* * *

Lemme know if y'all want an epilogue to follow! ;)

Thank you for reading, and stay strong Clockblockers! #savetimeless


	5. Chapter 5

I AM STILL ALIVE, STILL HERE, STILL WRITING. I'm so sorry for not updating/reading/reviewing in so long. I'm gonna try and catch up on the stories I've missed, but for now, enjoy the first half of the epilogue to Noise. Thank you for reading!

* * *

Part of her believed that everything would be solved once they saved Rufus, that that would be the end of everything, but it was a naive assumption on her part. Rufus is alive, their team is back together, but Emma and Jessica are still running rampant, tearing apart the past and the present for their cause, their lives are still dictated by the blaring siren that goes off every time the two women take the Mothership on another joyride, and their immediate response is far too Pavlovian for her comfort.

Every time the alarm rings and she's reaching for her gun, the one she started carrying not too long after they rescued Rufus, she wonders when exactly she became a soldier. Every time it takes her a second too long to remember what happened in any given year, she wonders exactly what real purpose she serves anymore. Every time they return to the present and she's left to return to her room, the one that's now solely hers, alone, she longs for another mission, only to escape the solitude of her own existence, to save her from the nightmares, the ghosts, the way she can feel her heart cracking under the weight of her role in saving the world. Every day, every hour, every minute she has, she wonders where the hell she lost herself in all of this.

It takes 15 months, 3 weeks and 6 days from the day they lost Rufus for her to wake up from another nightmare and remember that there is someone who might know just what she's feeling, who's saved her from herself more times than he claims he saved her. 15 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days for her to walk the distance of her room to his. 15 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days and she's ready to walk the distance of her heart to his if he'll let her, if he still loves her.

"Wyatt," she whispers, knowing it'd be better to wake him from afar than try to sneak up on him. The man's a lethal weapon as he is, but the gun hidden beneath his pillow and the Bowie knife tucked under the mattress become nothing less than deadly extensions of his arms if he's stirred too suddenly, and the fragility of her vulnerable state wouldn't handle well with staring down the barrel of a glock.

" _Wyatt."_

But there are only so many ways to wake a former Delta Force operative gently, so she does everything to can to keep from bolting from his room like a skittish cat the moment he shoots up from the bed, gun drawn.

"Wyatt." The crack in her voice gives away her fear. "It's just me." The flash of recognition that crosses his eyes is instantly washed out with remorse.

"Lucy, I—" The gun finds its way back under his pillow as quickly as it appeared. "I'm so sorry. I didn't… what's wrong?"

It's a bad idea, she reminds herself. A _horrible_ idea. He has every ability to completely shatter her. He's already done it once, and with Jessica still alive and out there somewhere, he can do it all over again. She wants to have the willpower to turn away from him, to not just lock the feelings away, but banish them once and for all. Walk away. Move on. Maybe it would be for the best.

But, god, she's _tired._

She'd said it to Denise before all of this began, before she ever stepped into that damned machine, that she is _not_ a soldier, and for a while she was able to keep herself separate from the harsh world that engulfed her. But now everyday she wakes up and fights, and fights, and fights and all she can think to do is keep fighting because what's left for her if she stops?

She's here, she came to him, because despite everything, there is no one else who could understand what she's feeling.

"Lucy," he calls to her. "Tell me what's wrong."

The tenderness with which he beckons her smashes like a wrecking ball into the dam she'd built around herself. Nothing can hold. But she can't find the resolve to explain how every turn of the dial has left her warped in ways she can't describe. So she echoes the reasoning he'd given her all those months ago, hoping he'll understand.

"I had a nightmare," she chokes out, her eyes suddenly burning from tears.

God, how long has it been since she really cried?

He mumbles something she can't quite hear over the roaring in her ears, but she doesn't need to hear once she begins to _feel_.

His hands wrap around her arms, pulling her into him, the time for tentative touches and hesitant movements long past. He surrounds her until she can no longer feel anything but him.

"Tell me," he murmurs into her ear. "Tell me everything, babydoll." Her words might be lost in between the crashing waves of sobs, but finally, _finally,_ she feels free to let everything go.

"I'm so tired of fighting, Wyatt. This isn't what I was meant to do," she sobs into her shoulder. "I didn't want to become a soldier; I didn't want to lose who I was, but it happened before I could stop it. I've lost so much in all of this. I've lost Amy, my mom, my dad, but I never thought I could lose myself too. I don't know who I'm supposed to be. I don't know where the end is to all of this, but what's so much worse is that even if we do find the end… even if we come out of this alive, what am I left to do? I'm not who I used to be. I've lost everything I've ever known and I just…" The heaviness of her tears begin to weaken, and her voice dims. "I don't know how to keep going anymore."

And suddenly it's like their back in Germany 1943 or back in the bunker, that first night she came home. She's drowning, floundering in the weight and responsibility of their calling and reaching for a lifeline to pull her to shore.

But what else can he say?

 _Figure out what you're fighting for._

Amy feels so long lost that it fails to stir her spirits quite like it used to.

 _You haven't lost me._

Then why does he feel like the furthest thing from her? Even now, tucked into his chest feels like a far cry from the intimacy they once shared. What once tethered them together feels worlds away.

What else can he say to keep her afloat?

"Lucy..." She waits for it, waits for him to pull her from the flame and forge her fears into strength like he's always done, the blacksmith of her courage. "I'm tired, too," he admits. "You're not alone."

And that's all it takes for something to snap back together inside of her.

She thought she had needed a lifeline, a savior to pull her from the brink, and maybe in Germany and after France, that's exactly what she had needed, but… here, now, knowing that he's drowning a little bit, too, that she's not alone, it brings a sense of peace she has never imagined possible. That her tears, her pain, her ache aren't borne out of weakness because the man who's seen and endured more than she can ever imagine is right there with her, and if they're going down… then they're going down together.

"But I've said it once," he continues. "And I'll say it again, and again, and again until you get it through that ginormous brain of yours, that you're Lucy Preston. You're not defined by your past or your pain, and you're damned sure not defined by any job. It's _you_ , your heart, your soul, that makes you who you are. I see it. Every day, in every time period, I see your heart shining through even in the most hopeless of moments. You're not a soldier, Luce. Soldiers can't hold a candle to what you are because you're a goddamn _warrior._ I know you're so tired of this life. I know you never asked for any of this, but still you amaze me. In all the shit that's been thrown at you since this all started, you've never wavered. You've never given up. And when all of this is ends, and it _will_ end, you're gonna go on and you'll find another way to change the world. I know you feel like you've lost yourself, but there's a resilience in you that's unlike anyone else. You're going to be amazing."

Relief begins to pulse through her blood, knowing she said everything she needed to say, and so she allows herself to sink further into his embrace. For the first time since he ran from the bunker, the air between them isn't filled with tension or anxiety, and they're just _them._

Lucy and Wyatt.

And maybe… maybe _that's_ what she's been waiting for… since he first told her he loved her, she's been waiting for a moment where they breakthrough the chains they forged for themselves, nothing left to hold them back.

And then she knows there's one more thing left to say.

"Wyatt?" She whispers once their hearts have both calmed, the tears dried on their cheeks.

"Yeah, Luce?"

"I'm tired of fighting this."

His arms tense around her, and she prays this is still what he wants, that _she's_ still what he wants. Her heart feels suspended in thin air, waiting for the moment he decides to grab onto it or allow it to fall.

He pulls back slightly, and the rough skin of his fingers lifts her face to him. Their eyes link for the first time since she entered his room. The anticipation for him to breach that final barrier builds

"Your move, professor."

But he's leaving it up to her. Even with her cards on the table, even though she's the one who sought him out tonight, he's too aware of the fragility of what they've stitched back together to move before she does.

But even more than that it's like he's daring her, pushing her, no longer allowing her to let others make moves for her, to take what she wants, to _demand_ it.

 _Your move._

There's no hesitation when she pulls him down to her. The months of rebuilding and reforging have already led them to this, and she won't wait a second longer than she must to finally banish the distance once and for good.

The way he kisses her now feels so much more intimate than it was in Hollywood. Like her heart's been rubbed so raw that the slightest touch would've left her gasping, but then there's this, his hands mapping the skin of her back, his lips passing over hers, his scratch of his scruff on her cheek. It electrifies every one of the nerve endings that she believed could no longer feel, jump starting the heart that's gone too long without the sensation of unfiltered, uninhibited _love._

The arm not supporting his position on the bed winds around her waist and draws her across his lap until he has her flat on her back, his body tantalizingly hovering over hers, but she feels him hesitate before he can fully settle against her. The fear of him turning away rips through her veins, but as if sensing her worries, he quiets the words before they can leave her lips with a firm press of his mouth.

"I want this, Lucy," he breathes as he pulls back just slightly, drawing them both up until they're upright, still face to face. "But I don't want to rush it."

"Wyatt—"

"Luce, please, just… hear me out?" He waits for her nod of approval, her nose brushing lightly against his. "It scares the hell out of me to think of what could happen if we dive too deep too fast when things still feel so breakable. You came in here clearly still hurting, Lucy. All those wounds don't magically heal overnight. And it's not like I'm the shining example of a person who has it all together," he laughs, offering some comedic relief amongst the heaviness of his words. A small chuckle escapes her as an unreal amount of affection for the man before her inflates her heart. Her hand finds its way across the scruff of his jaw, and for a moment his eyes flutter close and he leans into her touch. "I want to try this again," he promises, pulling her hand from his face to press a kiss to her palm. "I want this, you, more than anything, but I want to do it right." And for the second time tonight, he says just what she had no idea she needed to hear.

She came in here tonight with every intention of tumbling into bed with him again, hoping it would solidify them, bind them, fix all that's been so badly broken, but his words are the beacon through her haze of hurt and confusion, calling her back to him, reminding her that healing isn't going to be found there, but instead will come from time. It's time they can spend together now, in between the saving the world and the kicking ass, they can talk and listen and grow and eventually they'll find the ghosts that have haunted them for so long are nothing more than shadows of the past.

They'll be healed.

And he's not willing to put that at risk.

"Is that okay?" He asks when she doesn't speak, sweeping delicate fingers across the hair that had fallen in her eyes. "Can we do that?"

There are tears stinging at her eyes, but no longer from the weariness that drove her here in the first place. If there are adequate words to say in response, she can't find them, so she just nods her head furiously and doesn't stop even as he draws her back into his body, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, and it's like coming home.

For a long moment they just remain there, wrapped in each other, breathing the other in. It's true that words are good for healing. Talking, kissing, laughing, sex, even the fighting and arguing they always inevitably find themselves caught up in, they're all pieces that will play their part in time, but, for now, this is all either of them need. Just being, existing, living, breathing _together,_ so wound up in each other that part of her fears letting him go.

"I'm still sleeping here in case you were wondering," she murmurs against his neck, and the feeling of his rumbling laughter against her as her at the point of bursting from joy.

"No one said you had to leave," he chuckles, laying back down against the mattress. "And I know better then to try and boss around a bossy, know-it-all." He tugs gently on her arm until she falls against his chest.

"I'd call you a reckless hot-head," she teases. "But I worry you might be losing that title."

"Not with you," he explains, running a gentle hand through her hair. "I was reckless once when it came to this, and I won't do it again." Lucy rests her chin on his chest and gazes up at him, not knowing how to express the sudden fullness he's created in her, but before she knows what she's doing the giddiness pours out in a series of uncontrollable giggles, and she's pulled herself up the rest of his body until her face is buried in his neck and she's holding onto him like her joy will lift her into the air if she's not tethered down, tethered to _him._ And as if sensing her need for an anchor, he ropes his arms around her back, holding her so tightly to him that it feels like they'll merge into one.

It's certainly not the worst thought.

"Don't worry though," he chuckles, running a hand along the length of her spine. "I'll still hang on to some of that recklessness just to keep things exciting."

She unwinds herself from him just enough so she can fall right back into the riptide of his gaze.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she whispers, a smile ghosting across her face as her lips descend on his for just another moment before her head burrows back into his neck, the rise and fall of his chest lulling her into a sleep like she hasn't had since 1941.

15 months, 3 weeks and 6 days, and she's right back where she belongs.

* * *

There's sunlight pouring through the windows of the dingy bunker for the first time in what feels like weeks, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of warmth that beams through every part of her body. She'd woken up this morning with Wyatt beside her for the first time in so long, and though she'd been left to make her breakfast alone after he insisted on having an urgent errand to run, it seems nothing could disrupt the bliss with which she sat and enjoyed the morning.

That is until a stack of books falls down onto the metal table beside her with a sound only equivalent to a semi automatic, her tea splashing from its mug and her body almost flying up from the chair.

"What the _hell_ , Wyatt?" She gasps, a hand pressed to her racing heart, but he's just looking at her with a smug smirk over the top of the pile. "What is all this?"

"I've been thinking," he sighed with feign disdain, not bothering to follow up on exactly what he'd been thinking about, so she plays along.

"About what exactly?"

"About you," he grins cheekily. "About some things you said last night."

"What thing—"

"And it just got me thinking that this isn't much of a fair deal."

She eyes him skeptically but continues along with his game.

"What isn't?"

"I teach you to fight and what exactly do I get in return?" That catches her a little off guard. She can tell by the stupid cockshire grin on his face that he has an endgame here, and part of her is beginning to understand. She'd come to him last night, searching for the answers she'd lost, searching for herself, and this is him with a ridiculous stack of books, trying to help her find it.

"I see what you're doing, Wyatt," she laughs dryly, taking a sip of her tea.

"What?" He asks, the innocent facade beginning to slip a little as he can't keep the shit-eating grin off his mouth. "I'm just demanding payment for all the services I've rendered you the past year." He grabs the book sitting atop the pile and plops it in front of her.

It's one of hers, the first one she wrote without her mother's assistance, about women in the Civil War. She runs a sentimental hand over the cover before picking it up, the cover glinting in the sunlight.

"Payment through what exactly?" She parlays, glancing up at thim. "Tutoring? I feel like that's a little above both of us."

"Not tutoring, Luce," he offers, dragging the nearest chair closer to her until he's sitting with his knees brushing against hers. "Just some good academic discussion."

"Wyatt, you don't have to—"

"I want to." With that one declaration his facade crumbles completely, leaving his emotions on full display for her to read. It should've occurred to her last night that he would take every one of her concerns on as his own, that he would hear what she said, hold her, let her cry, and then take every step to pull her from her own abyss. "You've seen the whole of my world, so I want to try to give you back a little of yours."

She doesn't realize the tears had been building until his thumbs are swiping the runaways from her cheeks.

"Hey," he whispers, a smile ghosting across his lips. "No more tears. This was supposed to make you happy."

She pulls back slightly as a watery chuckle passes through her lips.

"I am happy, Wyatt," she assures him. "So happy that I don't… I just…" There aren't words for what he's stirred in her. Some ineffable feeling that makes her feel like she's floating. It's a feeling of absolute serenity, of basking in the light of the golden hour and he's her Sun. Everything is aligned and euphoria pulses through her veins.

There's a word for this, she realizes, a word she knows she feels, that's she's felt for a while, yet it's still a word she's been fighting, and she can't say it. Not yet.

"Thank you." It's the best she can say for now. The others will come with time. But by the way he beams at her, guides her face to his, kisses her slowly, assures her that he understands.

"Yes, ma'am," he smiles wistfully as they pull away, but his thumb continues its gentle caress across her cheek. Her forehead bumps across his, craving any and all connection with him, but a sudden voice from down the hall shocks them apart.

"This? _Again_?" Rufus calls less than discreetly, even less so when his voice echoes off the tin walls, but the way they both burst out laughing at their pilot's comically horrible timing reminds her that despite everything, they're all here. _Together._ The family she never expected. The one she wouldn't trade for the world. "At least last time you had the courtesy to do all this romantic shenanigans in a private guest room."

"And yet you _still_ managed to interrupt us even then," Wyatt responds with a goofy grin stretched across his face. "Part of me thinks you do it intentionally."

"Trust me. There is no part of me that gets any joy from it," Rufus promises as he passes by them on his way to the kitchen, but the purse of his lips to fight back his laughter says otherwise. "But—" he begins again. "I do prefer this to all the brooding and moping. It's good to see you two happy."

It's true. For the first time in so long her happiness doesn't feel like a small reprieve from the heartache, a moment of light so fleeting it almost seems naive to indulge in the feeling at all. This isn't a trick or a fluke or a momentary break in the clouds; this is a clean slate, a new beginning, no longer lost in a limbo of who she was and who she is, no longer wondering. She has her answer now.

* * *

Part 2 of the epilogue to come.


End file.
